


Vanished (Tale of a Single Rose)

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Johnlock, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, casefic, watson baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:07:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1985802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As little baby Watson gets kidnapped, John and Sherlock are taken on a hunt throughout Europe that does not only bring them closer to the mysterious abductor but also to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Rating and trigger warnings will be updated along with chapters. Updates will be posted approximately once a week.
> 
> Although Mary is mentioned under characters, she really only appears in flashbacks, if that should somehow concern you.
> 
> I've had this story in mind for a while now, but have been unsure about posting it. Comments and feedback of any kind are therefore highly appreciated and encouraged! Thank you reading :)

_Nervously, she looked about herself. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, no one had even paid her any particular attention yet. Good. Just another job, she told herself, just a different good this time around. She could do this, though, it was believable and if her boss's research had been correct, nobody would even have noticed the theft yet. And from the money she was getting for this she would finally be able to afford the new equipment she so desperately needed._

_As it was finally her turn at passport control, she accidentally bumped her large shoulder bag against the cubicle hosting the officer on duty, throwing her off balance a bit. At her stumble, the baby at her hip awoke and let out a disheartening cry. A moment of panic surged through her as plenty of faces turned her way - some annoyed, some empathetic ,some accusing. She shot them an apologetic smile, then turned to the officer with fake nonchalance: "Guess we won't be the most popular on the plane, will we?"_

_He merely awarded her a curt nod as he quickly scanned her and the baby's fake documents. He didn't so much as even look closely enough to verify their picture identities, and she was relieved at his negligence. Although their documents were top-notch, almost exact replicas, she preferred to draw as little attention towards them as possible._

_Settling down at the gate before boarding, she managed to calm the baby down and rock it back to sleep, a primal motherly instinct kicking in that she hadn't even been aware of carrying within her._

_Looking at the chubby, round face, tiny lips parted slightly, the soft nose nothing more than a small knob, eyes that were closed now but that - if she remembered correctly - were a dazzling shade of hazel underneath those lids, all framed by the faintest hint at blonde hair, she wondered what fate held in store for this miniature creature. She didn't know what was going to happen to the tiny human, and decided that she probably didn't want to know._

_"I don't even know your name, sweetie", she whispered to the bundle in her arms, careful not to let anyone overhear her. The baby's fake passport identified her as Kathryn, but she was well aware that that was rather likely not the name given to her by her parents. Studying the sleeping face, she determined that her companion looked like an Emily, or like a Claire._

_Banning those sentimentalities from her mind, she reminded herself that even though everything had gone exactly according to plan thus far, she shouldn't allow herself to find satisfaction in the fact, as their journey still held plenty of legs ahead and therefore potential to go weary._


	2. Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home to make a devastating discovery.

Gone. She was really gone. It had been almost three months, but sometimes John still couldn't believe that what he had always thought he wanted, what he had been innately craving all his life - the domestic bliss of marriage - had merely lasted a little more than a year. And not even that - because if he was utterly truthful with himself, he had known with instinctive certainty that their marriage was doomed the minute he found out Mary had not only lied to him about her identity, but had on top of it also shot his best friend and very nearly killed him.   
But, being who he was, a loyal man standing true to his commitments and never abandoning his responsibilities, he had stayed with her, had tried to make it work. Although, admittedly, if it hadn't been for the baby that was slowly but steadily growing inside of Mary as the ultimate proof of everything that had been false about their relationship, his choice might have been a different one.

Not that it mattered now, he thought to himself while getting on the tube after having picked up some takeout (Number 15, dish for one, his usual as of late) on the way  from work to his lonely townhouse. Mary was gone now, after all, gone for good - and it wasn't as if he missed her; he was secretly relieved to finally be rid of her destructive presence, but occasionally he did miss someone to come home to. Someone to enjoy dinner with, someone to cuddle up with in front of the telly while swaddling the baby.

The baby. The thought of her instantly brought a smile to his lips and a kind warmth spread all throughout him. No, he wasn't coming home to an empty house - he'd be awaited by the one person who still needed him in this world, who loved and relied on him unconditionally and whom, despite everything, he still held dear to his heart. It wasn't her fault, after all, none of it. As far as she was concerned, she was as pure and innocent as an English rose.

_"John! I've got it!", Mary yelled down the hall as she entered the house, hauling a grocery bag that was clearly too heavy for someone in her condition. John scrambled to take it from her, eyeing his pregnant wife with the practiced glance of a doctor. Only three more weeks until her due date, and she was showing considerably - as she was supposed to be. Her entire body had filled out significantly, leaving her with a heavy bosom and a roundish face. She was glowing and looked healthy - and it was moments like these when John really wished he didn't have to still loathe her so much, even though he would never let on._

_"What, dear?", he inquired, rendered curious by Mary's excitement._

_"The name! I think I finally know what we should name her!" John let out a sigh of relief. They had been debating this topic ever since they found out that they were expecting a baby girl, and neither of them had been able to come up with any options they felt even remotely passionate about. Whatever this was, Mary was obviously in love with it and he was determined to agree in any case, merely for the sake of finally settling on a name so close to the finish line. Well, maybe not any case...there were some names he would honestly rather not bestow on his daughter, but he was hoping for the best._

_"Yeah? What is it?", he asked while storing the groceries away._

_"Well, I was waiting at the check-out and the line was horrendously long, so the lady behind me and I somehow got talking. She looked fantastic, absolutely incredible, and I envied her figure...", she pointed at her own large, protruding belly with a loud sigh, "...anyway, she asked when I was due and I asked whether she had children, and she said no. Figures, with that body... and THEN, John, then she said that if she were to ever have children, however, she'd name a boy William, like the conqueror, and a girl Rose - like a beautiful, English rose."_

_"Rose, hmm?", John tried out the sound of it and decided it did indeed roll of his tongue rather nicely. And he liked the analogy._

_"Oh John, isn't it just perfect? Rose, daughter of John and Mary. Has a pretty ring to it, doesn't it?" She caressed her stomach gently and they smiled at each other - one of the few, genuine smiles that he could give her anymore. Thus it was settled. Rose Watson._   
  


It wasn't Rose's fault that her mother was a lying, betraying, manipulative psychopath, and that she was born into an already crumbling marriage. It wasn't her fault that now she was left with only him on this earth, and it wasn't her fault that he was really only left with her. Even Sherlock - his best friend, his only true confidante - had retreated from John's life significantly.

Long gone were the days when they would go on adventures together, solve crimes in perfect unison and take each other's incessant presence for granted. Everything had literally started falling apart with The Fall, with the (supposed) death of Sherlock Holmes that had left John shattered at first, then determined to leave the days of his unrequited and unhealthy attraction to the high functioning sociopath behind him and settle for a more sensible choice - nice, sweet, domestic and decidedly NOT dangerous Mary. Or so he had thought - and at least while he was still convinced of her innocence and positive influence on his life, it had helped him get over the fact that deep down he knew she would never be able to replace Sherlock, would never stir the profound emotions in him that the detective had.  


_It was their second date and they had decided to go out for a lovely dinner. Mary had suggested an Italian place she seemed rather fond of - but he just couldn't do it, didn't think he'd ever be able to even set foot into another Italian restaurant again. It didn't seem right, not without..._  
He had deterred her from the idea by proposing that they both try something new and had subsequently taken her to a small Moroccan place instead.   
The food was delectable, their dinner conversation lovely. Mary had a healthy appetite and he enjoyed watching her eat - although it didn't bring him nearly the same satisfaction as forcing a dry piece of toast down the throat of a certain detective who had deprived himself of food for far too long, yet again.

_After dinner, they went for a walk along the Thames and John reached out to take Mary's hand. He did it because he felt like their date was going well, and because he thought that he ought to - according to proper dating etiquette and because he liked her, didn't he? Her hand was small, fragile - so very unlike the large, long-fingered and surprisingly elegant hand he had always imagined holding in his, had always yearned to touch but never quite dared to - because it wasn't proper friendship etiquette, and because he wasn't like that, was he?_

_After their fourth date when all the signs pointed to the road of a successful relationship ahead, John decided that this could be it. His one chance at redemption, his one and probably final chance at leading the normal life with the suitable spouse he had always imagined. Maybe Mary wasn't THE ONE (actually he was certain she wasn't), but if he didn't think on it too hard he could easily convince himself that she was the one for him - the one he was going to marry, the one he might even have children with, the one who was so utterly unlike the OTHER._   
  


After Sherlock's sudden and unexpected return, they had never really managed to restore the equilibrium between them, despite both of their best efforts. John - although overjoyed - had still been too hurt, too uncomprehending in the face of why he had had to leave him, had lied to him all throughout. Sherlock, in a way, had seemed even more affected and broken by his absence than John himself - and above it all, there had been Mary. Despite never having given the doctor any obvious reason to believe so, he knew Sherlock hadn't been happy about his engagement, about his moving on and picking Mary.   
Then, at the wedding, Sherlock had shown a side of himself that not even his best friend had been fully aware of, and the supposedly happiest day of John's life had been filled with trying to make sense of it all, and with regret over having made the wrong choice.   


_He was holding Mary in his arms, swaying her about and gracefully leading her across the dance floor just like Sherlock had taught him, and he was aware that he was doing a reasonably good job at presenting his new wife to the sea of cheery attendees. In his mind though, Mary's petite figure and small frame were traded in for a much taller, more imposing one, and suddenly he was dancing with Sherlock again. He was leading the lanky detective, his hand resting firmly on the other man's strong back, clutching his much steadier hand tightly and looking up into those beautiful eyes that were carefully and deliberately void of any emotion. He wondered if he himself was nearly as successful at hiding his own sentiment, or whether it was all there, clearly written across his face._

_Even as he brought himself to consciously focus on MARY again, her small hand in his, her narrow waist, the beads of her wedding dress underneath his fingertips, he still couldn't help but let his gaze linger on Sherlock far more than was appropriate for a freshly married man. The tall, dark haired man standing on the podium, playing his violin with graceful movements, producing a wonderful tune, looked so serene and composed, yet so utterly broken and lost at the same time. He embodied what John felt, and somehow, at that very moment, the doctor knew that they were both just playing a role in a life that wasn't really theirs anymore - was never meant to be._   
  


After the wedding was when things had started to really spiral downward. Preoccupied with the joy over Mary's pregnancy and settling into domestic life as best as he could, John had had to put a halt to his previous lifestyle, and thus to Sherlock, pushing the detective further away than he had consciously been aware of.

Upon learning of his wife's betrayal, John had felt almost as alone and deserted as he had after Sherlock's death, and the months to come had been a constant struggle that, despite Mary's reluctant cooperation and Sherlock's committed but distant support, he had had to face by himself. Everything had gone to shit, and now all he had left to focus on had been damage control in the aftermath of the tornado that had swept across the plains of his life.

The final bullet to the pathetic cripple that had become of his happiness  had hit with full force the moment he had witnessed Magnussen drop dead to the ground - killed by a bullet that, ironically, he had  by now deduced was fired to ensure just that, his happiness. Instead, he had had to watch his best friend sacrifice his future, possibly his life, and had been overcome with the realization that Sherlock was about to abandon him again, to leave him with the hell that had become his daily routine. He never let himself ponder on the alternative, knowing that Sherlock had done the noble thing - the only sensible thing - and yet he knew he would have given it all - his lying wife, his unborn baby, his own life - for just one more chance at happiness with the man he truly loved.

Then, at the tarmac, the tragedy of it all had rendered him speechless, unwilling to accept the situation for what it most likely was: a final goodbye. The guilt of being the prime reason behind Sherlock's predicament in the first place had weighed heavily on his shoulders, and when the detective had seemed to prepare himself to say the one thing he had always wished to hear but never dared to hope for, John - despite himself - had prayed that he would just spare them both the pain and what-ifs.

John had had exactly four minutes to wonder whether "Sherlock is actually a girl's name" in combination with that one last, genuine smile, the LOOK in those eyes and the strangely intimate hand shake had truly been any less of a profound confession than three little words would have been - and then the detective had returned.   
Despite - or maybe because of - everything that had preceded, the following months had seen them drift apart even further, with Sherlock chasing what appeared to be a not-quite-so-dead-Moriarty and John centering himself around his little family. After all, that was what he had almost lost Sherlock for, wasn't it? And if he couldn't have the man himself, then he would at least respect the symbolism of his sacrifice, even if he sometimes loathed himself for wishing both Mary and Rose never existed, for they were the main reasons at that point keeping him from pursuing the one thing he had only ever wanted.

But now it was just Rose, wasn't it? Mary had successfully bid her farewell from his life, and yet things weren't any less complicated. There was still the baby, requiring all of his attention and certainly not fit to be surrounded by a sociopath like Sherlock. For a moment, John caught himself entertaining the thought whether - if he didn't have Rose to take care of - him and Sherlock could possibly find each other again...

Quickly banning the profoundly inappropriate notion from his head (what kind of terrible person WAS HE?), John readied himself to exit the tube and take the last few steps down the road to the  
only thing he felt he had left in his life: Rose.

  
***  


Upon opening the front door to his little townhouse, he instantly knew something was wrong. There was an odd kind of silence filling the house, and a general eeriness. "Amanda?", he called for the nanny - a qualified and reliable young woman he had been forced to hire after Mary's departure.   
When he received no answer, every nerve in his being became highly alert, his body immediately switching into danger-mode.   
"Amanda, is everything alright?", he tried again, carefully beginning to venture through the house. Everything looked fairly normal - until he rounded the corner to the kitchen and found the woman's body, slumped on the floor. The doctor in him took over straight away, rushing to crouch down next to her and check her vital signs. He sighed with relief upon discovering that she seemed in no immediate danger, merely unconscious - most likely knocked out by a blow to the head. His relief, however, was short lived as his thoughts automatically jumped to the second person in the house.  
  
"Rose!", he shouted, jumping to his feet and roaming the house to find the baby, driven by sheer panic now that he had confirmation something was utterly wrong. When she was neither in her playpen nor in her cradle, the only two places she would generally be if unattended, John became sick to his stomach with the absolute certainty that he wouldn't find her.

Although he continued so search every square centimeter of the house, operating as if on autopilot, he instinctively knew all along that it was a hopeless endeavor. She had disappeared, someone had taken her. His little Rose was gone.


End file.
